Preludes
by Justified Wings
Summary: A later-in-his-years Haytham and Ziio reunite. Perhaps it is a chance at happiness they quite possibly could have shared with one another. - AU. One-Shot. HxZ


**Preludes**

Their reunion had been something of an impossible feat. Time had had its way with him and yet she remained ever unchanged, scarcely different from the day they had first met. Without a true understanding as to the greater force at work, Ziio and Haytham Kenway had only the concept that their paths crossing was some form of cruel and tormenting Fate.

The first instance had been one of an undeniable tension for each side. Ziio and her hard stare, as if she had been unmovable. The woman was as stone against unforgiving winds. If she was rock, then it was Haytham who had attempted to weather down her scorn and hatred. For him, it was a matter of the bitter ache that sat beneath a blanket of jaded cynicism. To be faced with a woman of his past, a woman he quite possibly could have set aside his views of the world and its inevitable control for.

It left them both conflicted.

But that was only the first meeting, and it had ended well enough. If 'well enough' meant Haytham was escaping with only sharp-tongued words and icy glares. In hindsight, both parties had to admit that things could have gone worse. What held them both back, however? The very concept of their son, perhaps. More than that, most likely. A plethora of history between them that could not be easily erased and while both had tried to go their separate ways, they still wound up nostalgic over older days they'd shared with one another.

Yet that was only the first reunion, and a first was always open for creating a solid impression whether it was good or bad.

If it was to be called anything, perhaps 'truce' might have been the word for it. Through sheer persistence and his own strength of will, Haytham had refused to give up. For in the odd world he'd come to, he had no allies to call his own. None other than his former lover and the son she sired for him. No Templar strengths to call his own other than what he held in his own hands. No political influence to spread over the masses. None of his friends of old that he found solace in. And if it meant giving into Ziio's demands, he would have done so hastily, with little in question.

Within reason. All things within reason, even where the Native American beauty was concerned. Still when he caught the various ways her expression would soften—even slightly—he thought all of the effort hardly a waste of time. If he could only see her smile as she had once smiled at him. A smile was all he needed to feel motivated. It was all he needed to begin with. If he could not have his power, then at least he could have a chance at what he'd lost before.

And he could decide what to do about Connor at a later time. A time when he knew Ziio wasn't waiting for him. Keeping her for too long would have undone all of progress that he'd made. Haytham could endure many things, but certainly not that. Not again, for undoubtedly he'd have plenty of chances later to be granted her ire.

The world that seemed like a dream to him was one in such likeness with Boston, that it'd seemed all the more surreal to awaken with the very vivid memory of a hidden blade forcing its way into his neck. And while he had the scar, he seemed perfectly alive—capable of touch and feel. Admittedly, in seeing Ziio the first time, he'd truly thought he'd found the afterlife, but if religious theory had any basis it seemed unlikely that the two of them would end up in the same plane. She was all that was good and just and he couldn't claim to be anything the same, despite the idea that he did feel in earnest that his actions were necessary ones.

She would not stay with him. Not that he'd asked her to. He knew better. Regaining her trust, knowing that they could not make up for the past, he had to be patient. Allowing her to remain in control was not necessarily difficult, though perhaps slightly irritating at times considering how much of his patience had vanished. It was something of a minute feat for him to remain as composed as she likely had remembered him in their history. All the same, she had declined from too much of his companionship. Understandable, much to his dismay. But she had compromised and had agreed to meet him at the residence he'd managed to acquire.

It was a modest home, if he could call it that. Two stories with thin-planked hardwood floors, simple banisters, and simple rooms. Perhaps to some degree it wasn't as fine as he would have liked it to be, but in this place he was a beggar, no grand man of any sort of impressive lineage. At least not to anyone who didn't already know him. Trying to prove a title otherwise wouldn't have been on his list of priorities. Publicly—and proudly—advertising one's Templar status could either result in rebellion or grand praise. The world was still too black and white to see the shades where there might have been validity in the new order the Templars were attempting to instate.

What did Ziio think of them, now? With her mind no longer being solely influenced by the Creed, Haytham could only wonder. She had expressed plenty of dislike for having situational control stripped from her, regardless of how he had explained his perspective for her. But at the same time, her rejection of his ideals hadn't been so completely harsh that he felt she was impossible to speak with. Perhaps with time he could sway her. Perhaps with circumstance, he could _show_ her the very truth of his words. Then she would never had need to question him. She could, instead, be at his side, supportive and they could be the outstanding idyllic pair to promote peace without unfettered chaos.

Those days seemed rather far off. Almost enough to make him think they might never arrive, but he couldn't rule out the possibility. Not when he had her so close within his grasp. For if Connor continued to live in this new world, and Ziio too, then surely nothing was impossible.

His pace quickened, thoughts overrun with infinite possibilities. Time's complexities had their way with him, reminded him of what he could potentially accomplish if only able to get his foot into the proverbial door before it could be slammed shut in his face. Ziio was waiting and he could keep her waiting no longer. Or perhaps it was him that could no longer delay what was surely to be inevitable.

"Ah… Ziio."

He felt a little breathless when his eyes finally came to rest on her. With back to him, posture surprisingly lax, he _did_ feel a degree of relief to know that she had stayed. It was no simple amount of time that she had been left there to her own devices. Did she have anything else that needed to be done? He was positive she did. Yet she had waited there for him. She wouldn't tell him _why_ and he was aware of it, but actions often said everything words couldn't—and more.

She turned just enough to eye him when he addressed her and feeling no need to offer vocal reply, her left hand lifted in some form of idle greeting.

"Good," Haytham began, approaching her with the intent to close the distance between them.

Yet he was respectful enough not to inch past the invisible line she had drawn. If it was her initiative to cross boundaries, then he would not impede such. Leaving a foot or two as her 'safety net' both of his hands raised, to show her he was unarmed. It was a habit he had developed with their paths crossing once more. He could not earn her trust back if she feared for her safety. As ridiculous as it sounded that he would cause anything to befall her, he could only respect her concerns and abide by them. And hopefully eventually show her the fallacy in said suspicions.

She looked him over with the same gaze he had become quite accustomed to being greeted with. A thoughtful and prying kind of stare, with dark eyes that rivaled her braided hair. He liked it when she looked at him, however, and often it was difficult to pull his attention aside. For if he did, perhaps he would have missed something cryptic and vague that she would have offered. An elusive softening in her features, even if it was nigh undetectable.

"You took your time," Ziio observed, a slight tip of the head.

He shook his head at her, "I apologise; I hadn't meant to keep you. You could have left. I would have understood."

"I am a woman of my word."

Implying that he was not a man of his. He caught that clear enough. Ziio's tactics had always been purely direct. A different kind of thorn that pricked him than what he had been expecting. He almost argued with her. He wanted to, but he couldn't see the point in it. She was stubborn—not unlike him—and he knew well enough that bantering with himself would have been akin to doing so with a wall.

"Whatever your reason," Haytham continued, careful to keep his tone more gentle than conceding. "Thank you."

More than one moment went by where Ziio gave him no words. Instead, she offered him a subtle nod. Her stare hardened and when he didn't continue, she took it upon herself to do so instead. "What is it?"

"Nothing," was his immediate response.

Before he turned his back onto her, he motioned for her to follow him into a rather small and quaint room. Its decoration not overly lavish with details, but easily the most comfortable place to be in the house. A plush carpet beneath their feet, a desk neatly organised with stacks of documents, and at least one closed book that seemed to hold some sentimental relevance to the Templar. Moving to sit in the chair on one side, he gestured to one opposite of his for her to join him, something she didn't immediately seem interested in doing.

Her skeptical look was enough to coerce him to sit a little more straight, "I had meant to ensure that you are well, Ziio." As he always wished her comfort and security. "It is still nearly unreal for me to look upon you as you are." He could have easily lived each day seeing her. Even if only for a few moments. Just having her near made him feel…

Well. He couldn't say for sure. It wasn't unpleasant. He felt a degree of joy when she was in his midst, even when she was displeased with him.

"I'm aware."

When she shifted, Haytham couldn't take his eyes off of her. He watched her move, thinking she never quite held the grace as some ladies he'd been familiar with, but knew well enough he was fond of everything about her. The idea that he could not tame her. The way the fragrance of the forest stayed on her. The fact that she could not be controlled. The ever consistent demonstration that her strength was in her character and in her hands. And that she _had_ given him a son, in spite of the idea that Connor stood against him. Ziio had given him many things that otherwise, he might have been blind to. Briefly, she had shown him something more than what he'd confined himself to.

What life would have been like if things had not grown so bitter and painful…

His breath almost caught when she settled a hand on the arm of his chair. It took only a moment afterward that she straddled his lap comfortably. He willed his hands to remain where they were, rather than to take her into his arms the way instinct wanted him to. He'd not held her for… _so long_. Forever, he could have said. Twenty years? It left him nigh uncomfortable with the very idea. Almost, but nostalgia tugged at him, and served as a reminder that for as many years as he'd spent trying to get past her, seeing her alone only conjured that yearning sensation he'd hidden so well. There was no other in his life, past or present that measured up to what she had been to him.

He genuinely loved her. It was only that Life had been horrid to them both to keep them apart. If only they hadn't separated. He could have saved her from the fate that Washington had sentenced.

When she removed his hat and drew her fingertips through his greyed hair, he thought it only appropriate to interject, not unlike their older days with one another. "Ziio—" And he was easily silenced as her right hand rested over his lips.

"Be quiet."

Haytham didn't dare disagree. It would have been difficult to with the position she'd put him into. He didn't say it, but his eyes questioned her enough, or so he felt. He could not be as expressive as she, but Ziio was observant. Nothing missed her and though he personally was more comfortable not being so open and upfront, even against her he frequently felt his defences fall.

"I want to look at you a bit," Ziio explained as she set his hat down.

He made no argument or resistance with her eyes on him, knowing well enough that between the two of them, he was the victim to age and time. The lines in his face had grown, the furrow of his brow more prominent, and he had acquired scarring over the years. Yet when he looked at her, he saw the same beautiful woman he had saved from Thatcher. The same woman who flashed him the briefest curve in her mouth. Could a man love a woman based on an expression? He'd not… _loved_ her from the beginning, but he certainly had grown to. At some point.

While he certainly didn't mind her attention, her wandering hands, or the intrigued gaze she kept about herself, it was difficult to not do… _anything_. Yet pushing her could have destroyed everything he'd done up to the present. Every bit of process was as fragile as glass. If he said or did the wrong thing, he would have to start from the beginning once again. But he highly doubted just how mad a man could go with a woman who presented a double standard of physical intimacy.

Courage crept back into his throat. "Still looking, are you?" He tried to give her a smile, though it was small and a little uncertain, as if he almost immediately regretted speaking up.

"In a hurry?" Ziio asked him as she raised an eyebrow. Her tone held an edge of warning, but she didn't further threaten. Instead, she paused and after a moment, her right hand traced the scar that found his neck. "What is this from? It looks as if it was bad."

It wasn't something he could talk with her about. Well, he _could_, but he didn't wish to. Not in the present. Not when she was very much on the verge of setting his blood to a pleasant simmer. He hadn't forgotten its origin, however, or the anger that still sat within him when he considered all that had trespassed between him and Connor. For them to still be at odds, having only Ziio between them to uphold their weak agreement not to attempt killing each other.

No. He couldn't tell her where it had come from. Another day. Another time.

"Just a memory," he replied to her softly. "I am a man of many memories. Nothing for you to be concerned about."

He knew she didn't believe him, but he appreciated that she didn't further question him. It was doubtful that she would let it go forever. She'd ask again, he was sure, and he'd have no other choice than to answer her. And hopefully by that point they would be in a better place.

Haytham found himself growing tense when she moved to settle her lips to his scar. The sentiment itself was touching. What came with it was that continually growing desire to draw her against him. He had not forgotten how she felt. He had not forgotten how she sounded, or how she looked when dim light hit her body. To think they had once held potential to have a family together. Would they ever get that chance again? Would she even want to? He had been tempted many times before to ask her, but knew better.

"Ziio…" he began, that same tentative nature he'd carefully held onto many times before. "Take care not to do something you may regret."

A brief pause ensued on both ends and when she chose to nip at his skin, he tensed once more. "Haytham," he heard from the woman who'd frequently held him at bay. "Just put your hands on me."

It was the invitation he'd needed. The permission, more or less, and he almost sighed with relief when she gave it. His hands lifted and rather than crushing her to him the way he wanted to, he fished for her chin in favour of tipping it, so he might eye her with the familiar fondness he was never good with keeping from her.

"With pleasure," he unabashedly agreed.

And for him, a kiss seemed the perfect prelude.


End file.
